Not Good Enough
by Kayleigh-talitha
Summary: Nick's feelings and thoughts and his struggle to survive. Some spoilers from Season 5 and up
1. Chapter 1

**Author's notes:** I know this is a real depressing piece but to me it's more of an insight to Nick Stokes. I've watched him during all those seasons, and all I can say is something's going on with him, other then the fact the Producers are hardly giving him any screen time.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own CSI or its characters. This is only an interpretation of who it could be.

Not good enough, he always felt like whatever he did was just not good enough. He tried his hardest to please them, to please him, but in return what he got was riddles or half made comments which only made him feel empty inside. He wasn't sure how long he was able to keep up because everyday was starting to become a struggle.

They had no idea, he never let on. He was the guy they could depend on to do his job, the one who never complained and the one who made them coffee when they needed it. He didn't talk about his feelings, sometimes something slipped but who cared? They were all so caught up in their own mess to even notice what a fucking mess he was himself.

Nobody noticed his smiles never reached his eyes, nobody noticed his jokes were forced and his fooling around with Greg had lessened. Because even Greg was busy these days, part of the team, part of that perfect team of Grissom.

And he was left to swing shift, along with Warrick, who seemed to be doing most of the cases these days. He was left to do stuff in the Lab, to collect evidence and hand over the results. He almost forgot what it was like to solve the case, the thrill when another puzzle was unravelled. His thrill had been the compliments of the others, the rare remarks that made his day.

And now rare had turned into even rarer. They didn't even bother to ask why he was late, what happened, what was going on in his life. They never realized he stopped talking months ago, they never realized he had moved to another house because Crane's influence had left him aching all over.

To them it was over because Nigel had gone to prison, to them he was doing fine because he was doing his job and not screwing up.

In the beginning he could pretend to himself he was doing fine too, but now he just felt so alone in an office full of people. Often he just wanted to jump in his car, and just drive himself of a cliff, because he knew nobody was going to miss him. But the truth was, he was terrified of dying, the thought of not being able to walk or think or just do anything. So he continued, he lived, survived and prayed maybe some day he got lucky when some drunk driver collided with his car.

He tried to make that emptiness go away, by doing stuff, going out though meeting all those strangers and the nameless sex wasn't doing anything to him. He worked out every day, getting that anger out of his system, to prevent himself to do harm to himself or somebody else. To others it seemed he only wanted to look good, but he just didn't want to maim himself, not anymore.

He shaved off his hair, the only thing he had been proud off, the only thing he had liked about himself to let others know something was going on. But they said it looked good on him, that new look. And sure, they all wanted to touch his trimmed head but those were not the kind of touches he wanted. And so he kept it short, so he could look in the mirror and actually hate himself even more.

He was ugly, and dirty and so not worth to get noticed, every day just proved that. Catherine's reaction to him telling her about his abuse just proved that. He let others touch him, nameless faces and bodies, let them do stuff he never wanted to do because that was his punishment. Let Grissom taunt him because that was what he was there for. And every day was a struggle to live, to get up and care.

"Hey Nicky, how are you doing?"

"I'm fine."

**_The End_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's notes:** Thank you everybody for those words of encouragement, they inspired me to continue this though I can't promise a happy ending in this one. In many ways I identify myself with Nick, and his pain I've written is my pain. And though I'm doing a lot better now, I don't think I can make a happy feel good story at this very moment. One of the reasons why my others aren't finished yet, don't want to kill off all the main characters **-**sniggers to self-. So be warned to all who read this, it's one depressive piece of work.

Loneliness never comes alone 

_Should I be worried? _

Here I am, staring into the mirror and back to my watch and I realise I've been in here fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes in which I lost track of time and got lost somewhere in that massive jungle that are my thoughts. I've been staring to myself but not really seeing my reflection, not until now and I have to turn my head in disgust. There's nothing pretty to look at there, safe for a pale face with heavy bags under the eyes. _Were my ears always that big?_ They seem to stand out now and I feel like a goblin, one of those ugly slimy creatures from Lindsey's fairytale books. No wonder everybody else ignores me, hell, I would ignore me too. I'm not worthy to look at, too ugly. Not perfect.

Bile rises and I feel the need to hurl, again. I really should stop doing that, I tell myself as I stand there bend over the toilet, throwing up what used to be an apple. Hmmm, weird, it still looks like an apple too. I blink as I find myself staring again, this time into my own puke. _God Nicky, you're really loosing it here man, keep it together, if the others find out you're screwed. _Sighing I rinse my mouth and focus on the case. Ebola woman, well okay, technically not but she sure looked that way. We had to go to this spa where the doctor pretty much ignored me and kept staring at Catherine. He said it was because she was so beautiful and that he had no problem with me. Yeah right, he just didn't think I was good looking enough.

"Nicky, Cath's looking for you and she's one pissed woman."

I look at Brass when he comes in and tells me that, trying not to fidget under his scrutinizing look. He gets that Grissom look, like I'm some sort of bug under the microscope and he needs to take me apart. He called me Nicky, like Grissom and Catherine, he never called me that. Does he think I'm pathetic and need some special attention? Nicky feels so small, so young, so not good enough.

"Nick?"

"Huh?"

Okay, that was not an intelligent answer, but what else I am suppose to say? He'd been talking to me, like he's doing now and I just can't hear what he's saying. I can see his mouth moving and all and it looks kinda funny, like in slow motion. I should try to listen to him because he sees something's wrong. I try to talk but my voice doesn't work and a weird croak comes out. When his hands lands on my shoulder as he steadies me I snap out of it.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine Stokes, you can pass easily for an albino right about now."

His hand touched my forehead and his eyes narrow at me and he shakes his head, trying to pull me out of the men's room, probably right to Grissom or something like that. I resist this time, shoving him away from me maybe a little more harsher then I should. _Don't be a drama queen Nicky._ Touching my own forehead I'm surprised to find it hot to the touch.

"Go home, you're burning up or talk to Catherine about going home early. You really should take better care of yourself."

"It's just the flu," I call after him, watching him walk away. I've attracted his attention too, and he thinks I'm not taking care of myself. Another thing I don't do well. I wonder why I'm even bothering in the first place. I find Catherine and we're working on the case. I don't say anything and she doesn't ask either because we joke around about getting older and I forget about Brass and my episode in the toilet.

It's nothing, I'm fine.

The End 


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's notes:**

Yes, I've seen Grave Danger, and was I glad they finally gave Nicky some airtime and what airtime it was! Man, talk about an intense episode, and of course, my story will include some spoilers for it too, eventually. To answer the question if I'm going to continue with this story, yes, I will. I don't know what the end is and when it will come though, be warned.

****

****

****

**_I walk alone_**

**_The only one that I have ever known_**

**_Don't know where it goes_**

**_But it's home to me_**

**_And I walk alone_**

_Was I supposed to feel like this?_ To be scared of every little corner that wasn't bright enough for me to see what was in it? Every time I tense, especially at night, and that's not very convenient with me working nightshift. It has been so long, I thought I was over it, that it was gone and out of my life. But Nigel Crane will never leave my mind, he will always be with me, the very reason I really hate attics. The reason why I can't go to the dry cleaner's anymore, because every time a piece of clothing goes missing, I freak. I know he's still behind bars, locked up safely, but I can't think clearly when fear takes over.

My stalker, as Greg calls him, and that was what he was, he still is. I don't know why I did it, I visited him in prison. I guess I wanted a way to understand why he picked me out of all those people. The director of the prison wouldn't let me see him though. The man's still obsessed with me, I was told. They try to discourage him, but he manages to get my pictures time and time again, so they leave it be. I can almost imagine his cell, and I don't ever want to see it, to look at myself hanging on his stone walls. I never got that answer to my question. I just know Grissom was wrong, it **was** about me, it still is. And it will never be over for me either.

I really try to look normal, you know. I'm letting my hair grow back, simply because it's not me. I don't like it, it's from when I felt that bad, not that I feel that good right now. But I feel a lot better, I mean, I started eating again, a little. Warrick got through eventually, when it got obvious enough for not only Brass to notice. I didn't want to be the object of the whispers at work, to be looked at like some pathetic social worker's case. And Rick had been persuasive enough.

"Nick, we need to talk man."

I looked up at him from tying my shoelaces, wondering what was up this time, my friend had a serious tone, not one I heard often coming from him.

"What's up?"

He settled next to me on the hard wooden bench in the joined locker room, rubbing his fingertips together. He was nervous, had something on his mind as he looked at me with deeply serious eyes, was that worry I saw?

"I can ask you that, you're starting to look like a walking corpse and it's creeping me out. Why are you doing this to yourself man?"

"I dunno what you're talking about," I mumbled, my attention shifting back to my shoelaces, like they were the most interesting things I ever saw in my life. I wasn't crazy, I knew what he was thinking about, me having an eating disorder. Which I didn't, just wasn't hungry enough to eat. Every time I even smelled food I became nauseous enough to retch, and that wasn't a good idea being at work and all. A startling strong grasp on my arm made me look up, at his dark colored hand holding my upper arm, the contrast of his skin upon my own.

" You know damn well what I'm talking about, you're not eating and I want to know why."

I tried to look anywhere but his face, trying to avoid those prying eyes, trying to come up with a perfectly sane lie to get him to back off. But my mind was blank, my throat like dry sandpaper. Think, I told myself, Think or you'll blow it and even loose your job if you're not telling him something, anything. I couldn't tell him the truth, because that would be too insane, they would hate me forever, like I'm hating myself right now.

" Nick, you can tell my anything, we're buddies, remember? I've been holding Catherine off your back, but I can't keep her away forever."

Yeah, I could get that, Cath was a lot like a watchdog when she smelled something wrong, and she was the last person I wanted hovering over me. There was much I could tell him, but most weren't very plausible. I had to come up with something good, good enough to convince Warrick I was going to be fine eventually. I sighed deeply before finally locking eyes with him.

"It's just the shit I've been dealing with lately, with Nigel Crane and all. I'm seeing this therapist who's helping me deal. But it's bringing back memories."

He nodded understandingly, frowning briefly when I said Nigel, recognizing the name but not knowing where from. Then his eyes widened slightly, his mind making the connection as he remembered. I didn't expect anything else, they figured as soon as my stalker was convicted it was over and done with. Granted, it has been two years, not that's a long time considering what he did.

"You should have said something, I was worried about you."

His beeper buzzed him, and he stood quickly, thinking about his case already. He paused at the door briefly, turning back to look at me with a smile.

" If you need anything, I'm here for you man."

And here I am, actually seeing a therapist, just in case Warrick decided to check it out himself to make sure. It helps, a little, she's helping me deal with Nigel, and the assault when I was only nine. The sole reason why I feel this ugly today, according to her. I'm not sure I believe all this psycho analysis, some of it makes sense, but to blame it all on the babysitter is a bit too much. I mean, this is about me, I was there too, I'm still here. I'm the reason and cause of my own behavior, weird as it is.

I'm the creator of what I am today, the deep dark soul my own making, I am what I am today……

_Ugly._


End file.
